@serebrc —— Душа моя
Yuuri’s fingers worry upon the rim of a shot glass full of a foul-smelling vodka, turning it nervously as he contemplates exactly how unpleasant it’s bound to be. Victor and his attentions slip away for a moment to take a photo with a young fan, which is the perfect opportunity to take a good solid whiff of the formidable drink, and wince at the putrid bouquet.
This is a bad idea. He’s not that keen to drink, given his family proclivity to cosmically imprudent inebriation, so he’s hesitant, and especially around Victor. A hundred wicked prognostications of fear flood his brain, of instagram pictures of him with his tie around his head like some barstar office worker. Or poised ass-out, back-arched like some prodigious woman of ill repute making duck lips through bleary, red-drunk expressions.
But when Victor sits down again, smiling at him with a benevolence that melts his heart, he knows he can’t refuse him. Nor does he want to. “I won’t die from this, will I?” he jokes weakly, though he’s heartened for a moment at the sight of all the delicious food Victor’s ordered for them. He wonders if it’s a peace offering. For which part of the day’s earlier excursions, he’s not sure.
“What is it you say?” he asks, brightening a little with some effort. No matter how nervous he is for this particular endeavor, he’s been nervous about a thousand things lately. And Victor, for his part, has always seen him through. It certainly stands to reason he would again. “На здоровье? Did I say that right?”
